


Only Who Is Left

by aussiebee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Competence Kink, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Médicins Sans Frontières | Doctors Without Borders, SEAL Stiles Stilinski, Surgeon Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 17:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21183227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/pseuds/aussiebee
Summary: It's been a long twelve months and Laura is finally putting her foot down about sending Derek, MSF doctor and perpetually self-sacrificial moron, home for a well-earned break. She manages to call in a favour to have Derek escorted by a SEAL team to Baghdad to get safely home.No one is more surprised than Derek when he finds himself stupidly attracted to one of the SEAL team.





	Only Who Is Left

**Author's Note:**

> I've given this a Graphic Violence warning just to make sure I'm covered for some of the more vivid descriptions of wartime injury. All of it is secondary to Derek treating it as a surgeon rather than the injury being described as it occurs, but better safe than sorry. If you would like more information, please feel free to [come find me on Tumblr](aussiebee.tumblr.com) or leave a comment and I can let you know more. Look after yourselves!
> 
> Title is from Bertrand Russell: War does not determine who is right-- only who is left.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185172888@N05/48962511277/in/dateposted-public/)

Feeling his entire body relax as the helicopter overhead continued onwards, Derek sighed and scrubbed his hands over his stinging eyes, taking a moment to rest. He’d been in surgery since three a.m., hadn’t had the chance to stop for lunch, and was now too tired to eat at almost five p.m.

He was just working up enough energy to make his way back to his quarters when Erica found him and collapsed down onto the bench by his side.

“Fuck. Me,” she sighed, her hair flat from her scrub cap as she pulled it free of the tight bun she’d had it in. “What the hell kind of day is this?”

Derek huffed a fatigued laugh. “I don’t know, but I could absolutely do with less of them.”

“Sing it, sister,” she agreed, slumping tiredly against him. “What’re the odds of Abdul-Rahman making it?”

Thinking back over his surgery, Derek was pleased with how it had gone. The biggest issue was going to be protecting the eight year old from his body succumbing to shock and blood loss he’d suffered before being brought to the MSF hospital to be saved. If they could control that and keep infection at bay, he might be okay.

“I’ve got Isaac staying in tonight to monitor the paeds. He knows to reassess the antibiotics if Abdul becomes febrile. Beyond that?” Derek shrugged and stared out over the camp, no longer really seeing it. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

At that time of day the Médecins Sans Frontières - Doctors Without Borders - camp was bustling. Clinic staff in green and blue scrubs, volunteers in white MSF tees with the red logo, locals and refugees in traditional dress and security in BDUs all mingled on their way to shift, or back to the Mess or their quarters for as much sleep as they could get before they were called back to work. A group of young children ran past, high-pitched laughter following them as they headed in the direction of the river, and for the millionth time Derek marvelled at the resilience of children. Even here, in one of the most devastatingly war-torn areas on the planet they still managed to find opportunities to laugh and play.

At his side Erica sighed a little and he glanced down to find her asleep, deep shadows beneath her eyes that he knew matched his own. He resigned himself to trying to nap where they sat, loathe to disturb her, and dropped his head back against the rough concrete wall that was still hot. As soon as the sun dropped beneath the horizon he knew the temperature would fall drastically, but for now he’d stay as sweat slipped down his spine and allow Erica the rest she deserved.

  


What felt like a moment later Derek jerked awake at the sound of distant semi-automatic gunfire, disoriented for a moment by a landscape obliterated by the full darkness of night. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep for, but it must have been a good couple of hours for it to have gotten so dark.

“Over the ridge,” Boyd rumbled from the flat rock he was sitting on, his back mostly turned as he watched carefully over the camp, rifle lying ready across his thighs.

Derek nodded and groaned as his neck twinged from the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in, but he lifted his arms over his head and stretched, arching his back and yawning as he did so. “Where’s Erica?”

“Mess,” the big private security guard told him. “She’s going to bring you back something to eat.” Derek’s stomach grumbled audibly at the mention of food making Boyd grin, a sudden flash of white in the gloom. “Laura’s looking for you, by the way.”

Derek groaned and slumped forward with his elbows on his knees. “Of course she is.”

Both of them working for MSF, he as a trauma surgeon and she as a project manager was great… in theory. Between them they had made a lot of contacts and done great things for their patients and the organisation, but they’d somehow both ended up in the new camp set up outside of Bajid near the Iraqi-Turkish-Syrian border, and it was driving Derek crazy.

“Tell her you actually witnessed me sleeping, will you?”

“I run when I see your sister coming,” Boyd told him unashamedly. “Tell her yourself.”

Snorting and muttering under his breath about _ traitor _ and _ terrible friend _ and _ fraidy cat _, Derek looked up when Erica returned with a commissary tray laden with food. He sighed gratefully when she passed him a tin mug of barely drinkable coffee and put the tray down on the bench beside him, taking a chocolate muffin from it over to Boyd.

Derek watched as Boyd smiled up at Erica and she briefly cradled his face with one hand, her touch intimate and fond. A familiar loneliness filled him, not for any one person in particular, but for the closeness, the affinity. His work as a trauma surgeon with MSF was rewarding and heartbreaking by turns, but it made it difficult to make lasting connections given the transient nature of the job. He turned away from Erica and Boyd and pulled an MRE into his lap, the top of it saying ‘chicken’ but the contents making him question his life choices. He was hungry enough that it didn’t matter, though, so he dug in and ate a second one before slowing down to peel an orange, the astringent scent of citrus filling his senses and juice making his fingers sticky.

“Laura’s looking for you,” Erica said after a while, her legs stretched out next to Boyd’s as they relaxed together.

“I know,” Derek said, eating a handful of dry, not-quite-stale crackers before dusting his hands off against his scrub pants and downing the last of his now-cold coffee-flavoured sludge. He collected the detritus of his meal and piled it back on the tray as he got to his feet. “Make sure you get some sleep,” he told Erica as he got to his feet, and nodded at Boyd. “We’ll probably catch more of the fallout first thing tomorrow if the border is open again.”

Erica tossed him a jaunty salute and he rolled his eyes as he left with a nod of his head to Boyd, returning the tray to the Mess before having a quick shower and going in search of Laura. He found her in the Hub, so-called for the mish-mash of utilities there that had caused the building to become the social focus of the camp. She was at a computer typing furiously, but stopped and spun on her chair to look him carefully over before turning back to the computer and typing again.

“You look terrible.”

“Like you’re a vision,” he shot back, digging his chin obnoxiously into her shoulder as he looked over it to see what she was doing.

“Fuck off,” she told him mildly, shoving his face away with her palm.

“‘I’ve not actually seen Dr. Bear for three days’,” he read out, “‘so he could be dead for all I know. Tell Cora I call dibs on his stuff, but she can have his shitty movie collection.’ Are you emailing Mom?”

“And ccing in Uncle Peter,” she told him.

“Why would you-- _ no _, Laur,” he groaned.

“_ Yes _, Der,” she mimicked. “It’s leave time, you ridiculous overachiever.”

“Why don’t _ you _ leave?” he asked sullenly. “That way you don’t know what’s happening here, or what I’m doing, and we can go back to not actively loathing the sight of each other.”

“Oh, would that I could,” she replied distractedly, “but I’m not the one approaching the twelve month mark.”

Derek scowled. “I’m not burned out, Laura; I don’t need leave.”

Laura stopped typing and faced her brother again. “Der, you look like hell. No matter what you say, I know this shit gets to you, makes you heartsore. You’re not failing anyone by going home, but you might be endangering lives by staying. We all need to rest sometimes, away from all this.” She waved a vague hand to the room in general and the camp at large. “Go home. See Mom and Dad. Catch up with people. Get laid.”

“Nope, not talking to you.”

“When was the last time, even?” Laura grinned. Evilly, Derek thought.

“Do you remember that one time in high school when you and Stephen Watts were caught doi_ mmph _,” Derek laughed as Laura’s hand slapped across his mouth. “Drop it,” he told her after he licked her palm and she released him with a grimace and wiped her hand on his scrub top.

She sobered and pushed his hair back from his forehead in a gesture so reminiscent of their mom that he felt a pang of homesickness for the first time in almost a year. “Go home, Derek. They miss you.”

He knew he wasn’t getting out of it this time, and he nodded once in capitulation. “When am I leaving?”

“There’s a flight out of Erbil tomorrow afternoon, or one on Friday night; up to you.”

“Friday,” Derek said immediately. “I want to keep an eye on Abdul-Rahman.”

Laura’s face immediately softened. “I heard. I’m so sorry, Der.”

“Me too,” Derek said, equal parts angry and sad.

“You know I’ll keep you updated on his recovery,” she told him sincerely, and Derek loved her for her optimism.

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?” he said suddenly, needing to see her smile. “Let me surprise them.”

Her grin was wide and just like their dad’s. “She’s gonna cry all over you.”

“And then hit me, probably. ‘Oh my god, you horrid child, why didn’t you _ tell _ me?’”

He and Laura said the last part at the same time and they shared a conspiratorial grin until Laura leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck and draw him close, pressing her face into his neck the way she’d always done when they were kids.

“Love you,” he muttered, trying to make it sound grudging and missing by a mile.

“Oh my god, you’re such a sap,” Laura smirked when she released him, like she hadn’t just been clinging to him like a limpet. “But I love you too.” She shook her head and pinched his beard to tug irritatingly at it. “Now go and get some sleep; I’m exhausted just looking at you.”

“Get some yourself,” he told her, flipping her off as he stood.

“Bet I get more than you,” she said suggestively, and her cackle of laughter followed him out of the room as he left.

*

“BP is ninety-five over sixty, still afebrile, no haematuria since one a.m., but no urinary output since then either- we’ve upped IV fluids to seventy mils an hour and are keeping an eye on that, but no oedema or ascites as of yet. He’s been afebrile all night, IVABs administered by syringe driver at six a.m. and analgesia seems sufficient; he hasn’t woken up yet or seemed to be in any pain, no guarding or restlessness.” Isaac updated Derek on Abdul-Rahman’s condition as he arrived the next morning, handing him the neatly maintained chart as they stood together at the foot of the boy’s bed.

He was pale, shockingly so given how dark his tawny skin usually was, but that was to be expected after having had an IED blast half a hundred pieces of metal and glass into one’s torso.

When Abdul-Rahman had been brought in in the middle of the night-- and in a cart pulled behind a goat, no less-- by his friends and older brother, Derek hadn’t hesitated. The eight year old Iraqi boy was a common feature in the camp, ‘attending’ Derek on the wards as he translated for and taught the local doctors what he knew, and running errands and messages for payment in American candy and crumpled US dollar bills. He had been the one who, upon seeing Derek for the first time and overhearing Laura call him Der-Bear had, in heavily accented English, begun calling him Doctor Bear, a name which stuck when Derek had been accosted by a bunch of similarly-aged local kids fascinated by his abundance of body hair visible after his shirtless workouts.

Derek adored him, indulged and spoiled him, and learned what he suspected were some very naughty words in Kurdish from him. As such, he had spent more than nine hours the day before clamping and cauterising bleeding vessels, setting broken bones, removing a spleen and dozens of bits of shrapnel, one of which appeared, horrifyingly, to be the tungsten filament from a lightbulb. He had done all he could, and it was chafing at him that from here on out he just had to wait for the outcome to resolve itself, one way or another.

Isaac drew him from his frowning observation of the skinny little body beneath the stark white sheets by knocking their shoulders together. “He’s tough, Doc. And you fought hard for him- I’d put my money on you anyday.”

Smiling at Isaac and making the shy nurse drop his eyes as he basked in the approval, Derek nodded. “Thanks, Isaac. And thanks for staying with him last night.

“It’s what we do,” Isaac mumbled shyly.

“Hey Doc, can you come look at this for me?” Erica called from the small lab attached to the end of the ward, and after that it was business as usual.

  


The day passed quickly and by the time Laura found him to give him his documentation for the trip home he was ready for bed, eating in the Mess with his head propped up on one hand to keep his face from dropping forward into his dahl as he struggled to remain awake.

“Oh,” he said sourly, scowling as Laura dropped into the chair opposite him and slammed her hands down on the table at the same time, jolting him rudely awake, “I was hoping you’d slid back to your lair overnight to swallow your prey whole.”

Laura forced her face into a reasonable facsimile of an amused laugh before letting it drop from her face. “Jesus, dude, you definitely need time off. You look like someone shot up your house, stole your car and killed the puppy your dead wife gave you before she died.”

“Why must you always be so oddly specific about things like this?” Derek asked, torn between amusement and horror.

“It’s the plot from _ John Wick _, you noob,” Laura snorted.

“Wait, the one where they stick the guy in the grass effigy and set him on fire because of the crops, or whatever?”

Laura frowned in confusion before her expression cleared and she stared at him in disbelief. “That’s _ The Wicker Man _. God, how are we even related?”

“I’m not sure we are,” he told her with a wry look. “Those adoption papers you ‘faked’ when I was nine were maybe a little _ too _ good.”

Laura’s grin was enormous. “I was grounded for so long for that.”

“Because I _ believed you _, you awful excuse for a sister.”

“Clearly you’re an idiot,” she shot back. “Like with our faces we could have been anything other than related.”

“To be fair,” Derek said, drinking the last of his tea, “you were frighteningly ugly when you were fourteen.”

In retaliation Laura stole the jell-o cup from his meal. “What a shame that, unlike myself, you had nowhere to go but down from there, then.”

“Careful, Laur; your grey roots are showing.” Derek smirked as his sister’s hands flew involuntarily to her hair, where not a grey was to be seen. It was a vanity she had inherited from their mother, and even though Laura didn’t actually have any greys, she was paranoid about it.

“You’re such a dickhead,” she scowled at him, and even Derek could see their resemblance in that expression as he grinned in return.

“You gonna be okay here when I’m gone?” Derek asked.

“Pretty sure I’ll manage without you. After all, I spend most of my day denying your very existence, even if only to myself.”

“That warms me, Laur, deep inside.”

“So it should. But yes, I’ll be fine. Record Mom’s reaction when you get home, okay?”

“Sure,” Derek said, huffing a small laugh. He yawned widely, then picked up the papers she had brought him. “Thanks for these.”

“No problemo, bro. Now go and get some sleep, okay?”

“You-”

“Derek!” Erica skidded into the Mess, her eyes casting wildly about until she found Derek and ran over. “Abdul is awake,” she panted. “He just woke up.”

“Go,” Laura smiled when he glanced at her, and he did, getting to his feet and following Erica back to the recovery ward.

They let themselves in and made their way to the second-to-last bed on the ward. Isaac was sitting beside it, speaking quietly with the boy, but he got to his feet and vacated the chair for Derek with a pleased grin.

“Hey, Abdul,” Derek said, smiling at the boy when he rolled his head dopily, still under the effects of the painkillers he was on. Derek took his hand and pressed fingers against the pulse in the tiny wrist, idly eyeing the clock on the wall as he did so. “Nice to have you back with us.”

“Doctor Bear,” Abdul-Rahman smiled, his voice lilting with his accent. “You fix me?”

“We did, sweetheart,” Derek told him, taking the chart Erica handed him and glancing over it, pleased with what he was reading, noting that the urinary output had resumed and seemed healthy. He handed it back and leaned on the bed to smooth the child’s dark hair away from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“My belly hurts, a little. And I am most thirsty, Doctor Bear.”

Erica appeared with almost supernatural speed, a cup of ice chips in hand. Derek helped Abdul put one in his mouth, smiling as his liquid brown eyes drooped closed and he fell back under without a sound.

Erica and Isaac drew away a little to speak softly together, and Derek let his forehead drop to the bleached white sheets in exhausted relief, carefully holding Abdul’s hand and thanking a god he didn’t believe in that the boy had survived.

That night, when he eventually made it into his bed, was the first night he slept through in a week.

*

The following afternoon, with his camera in hand to take photos for a newly-conscious Abdul as promised, Derek made his way down to the river in the afternoon, two days before he was due to leave. He sat on the riverbank with some of the other staff and volunteers, laughing at and cheering on the kids playing in the shallow water. It wasn’t long, though, before some of the older children approached the onlookers to request their help, which is how Derek ended up shirtless and hip-deep in the dirty brown water of the Tigris River, half-covered in mud and soaked to the bone.

He wrapped his hands around Issa’s knees, the tween perched on his shoulders and trash-talking in a hilarious mix of Arabic, Farsi and broken-English curses and waited for Jalel, a young local surgeon Derek was teaching, to settle Mohammed-Ali on his.

“You ready?” Derek called up to Issa, and received an ululating war cry in response, Derek laughing as he laboured it out for the two boys to battle it out above the water.

They were all-but assured victory when the younger children began screaming and evacuating the water. Derek’s adrenaline spiked as he spun to try and figure out what the source of the panic was, but just as he caught sight of the BDU-clad team on the highest part of the riverbank, Mohammed pressed his advantage and all-but launched himself from Jalel’s shoulders to knock both Derek and Issa off-balance and into the water entirely.

Derek surfaced laughing and hauled Issa to his feet as well, patting him commiseratingly on the shoulder over their loss as he trudged to the bank. He heard someone call for Doctor Bear and looked up at the figures watching the river battles play out. One of them lifted a hand in greeting which he returned as he climbed the slight incline, sluicing water from his hair with both hands as he went.

“Doc Hale?” the guy in the middle asked, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, but before Derek could confirm the man next to the first pulled off his own sunglasses and revealed a pair of sparkling brown eyes turned almost to honey by the late afternoon sunlight.

“Oh, I think Doctor Bear is _ infinitely _ more accurate, don’t you, McHottie?” the guy said, addressing the man to his left. The blatant appreciation in those gorgeous eyes as they dragged down Derek’s furred, wet torso and back up again made him flush, colour standing high on his cheekbones.

“Christ, Mischief, we literally just arrived,” one of the others groaned, and Derek glanced over to find a ridiculously chiseled blond rolling his eyes.

“Shut it, Hollywood,” ‘Mischief’, apparently, shot back, his eyes never leaving Derek.

“We're your pickup team,” the first guy told him with the long-suffering sigh of a parent arbitrating childish squabbles as he held out his hand. “I'm Scott, this is Jackson, Lydia, Allison-”

“And I'm Stiles,” Mischief told him, left hand draped casually over his rifle as he held out the right to Derek and smiled widely.

Derek felt his blush return as he firmly shook the big calloused hand and saw Stiles’ eyes flick down to where they were touching as though he could physically feel the thrumming beneath his skin that Derek was feeling too.

“Derek,” he said, his voice rough. Then, “pickup team?”

“We're on our way back home for a debrief and had a request to escort you, seeing how you're headed in the same direction,” Scott explained.

Derek glanced over the group, noting the lack of identification or insignia. “You're SEALs?”

It was only when he went to wipe water from his face again that he realised his hand was still in Stiles’, but he knew he wasn't imagining the regretful drag of the other man’s fingers as he slowly released Derek. He caught the redhead’s-- Lydia’s-- smirk as she deliberately looked away from them, eyes scanning the horizon. “Very observant, Doctor.”

“Not hard when there's nothing _ to _ observe,” Derek told her, then stumbled forward a step as a couple of kids and a mangy looking dog clipped the back of his knee on their wild sprint past.

Quick as a flash Stiles was there, big hand firm as it wrapped around Derek’s arm above the elbow and held him steady. “Easy there, big guy,” he smiled, eyes bright and amused as Derek jerked himself back a step. “If you're gonna throw yourself at me, at least buy me a drink first.”

“As much as I'd love to stand around and watch Mischief’s inept attempts to flirt… and I _ would, _ believe me… I'd much rather shower and eat,” the blond grumbled.

“Yeah, alright,” Scott grinned. “Lydia, Allison, you too. I'm gonna go and speak with the project manager.”

Derek snorted in elegantly. “Good luck,” he said wryly. “Feel free to ignore everything she says.”

Scott’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he just nodded and threw a short hand signal to Stiles who nodded once before turning back to Derek.

“So,” he began, permanent grin fixed firmly in place, “are you gonna keep swimming, or can I walk you back?”

“Uh, I was going to head back,” Derek told him, glancing up at the sky to gauge the time. “Let me just get my stuff.”

“If you've got a shirt, feel free to leave it off,” Stiles called as he walked back to collect his things, and the cheeky laugh that followed his stumble echoed off the river like music.

Derek resisted the urge to groan, but only barely. This was absolutely going to be a problem. They walked back to the clinic together-- Derek with his shirt tugged firmly on, _ thank you _\-- with Stiles chattering the entire way. He apparently didn’t expect much conversational input from Derek which suited him just fine, content to observe Stiles as they walked.

They hesitated together outside of the commissary, Stiles leaning back on his heels, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses again. “Want to come eat with us?”

Derek shook his head reluctantly. “I need to shower, and then I have a mountain of paperwork to get through.”

“I can help you with at least of one of those things,” Stiles told him, the right side of his mouth curling upwards as he pulled off his glasses and fixed those incredible eyes right on Derek’s.

“I don’t think so,” Derek told him, trying desperately to control the blush he could feel creeping up his neck. “All those reports need to be signed off on by a senior medical officer, which is a bit beyond your purview. But thanks for the offer.”

Stiles’ sudden bark of deep laughter was enough to attract the attention of the dozen or so personnel in their vicinity, a fact Stiles didn’t seem aware of but that made Derek’s skin prickle uncomfortably when he noticed a few of the glances turn admiring.

“Alright,” he said eventually, shifting his weight to one foot and repositioning his rifle. “You go and have your much-less-fun shower _ alone _ and I’ll see you later, Doctor Bear.”

There was nothing remotely subtle about the way Stiles’ eyes dropped to visually explore Derek’s torso, not really hidden by his wet shirt, but there was such sweet admiration in the look that Derek was surprised to realise he didn’t feel particularly sleazy about it. He knew what he looked like, knew what people thought when they looked at him, and the blatant want in the glances he usually received left him feeling skeevy and objectified. Not with Stiles, though.

Derek smiled his farewell and left to shower, kicking himself when he turned back at the corner of the building and found Stiles leaning his shoulders back against the wall with his slim hips tilted obscenely forward, still watching him, laconic smile firmly in place. He waved a lazy hand, but Derek just ducked his head and fled.

*

Unfortunately, Derek’s prediction about an influx of refugees from across the Syrian border proved to be correct. He had been scheduled to begin his shift at five the next morning, but was awoken before two a.m. when one of the nurses, Nenet, rushed into his tent and shook him awake, startling him into consciousness.

“Sorry, Doc,” she said hurriedly as he switched on the lamp, her accent thickened with sleep “but we've just had about eighty refugees show up, a couple with GSWs and one that looks like it’ll be a BKA.”

“Shit,” Derek muttered, shoving a hand back through his hair as he tried to wake himself up. “Did someone wake up the new ortho guy? The Russian one who arrived last week?”

“Yeah, he’s on his way too. Theater One is prepped and ready to go, and it’s all hands right now, so you should have a full staff.”

Rolling out of bed and stumbling to the small basin in one corner he splashed water on his face and pulled on a set of scrubs. “What’s the supply situation like?” he asked.

“Running low on B-pos and O-neg blood, as usual, and one of the autoclaves are down, but other than that we’re doing okay for now.”

“Okay,” Derek said, rejoining her. “Who’s on triage?”

“Kapoor,” Nenet told him, flashing a stark white grin at his groan. “I know, but everyone else was needed more urgently elsewhere.”

“God, I need to make sure he gets more training,” he grumbled as they hurried out of the living quarters and into the hospital building together. “He’s a great kid, but he cannot prioritise to save his life.”

“Or anyone else’s,” the tall Egyptian woman said wryly, making Derek snort.

They separated once they were in the surgical building and Derek wasted no time in scrubbing in, carefully and methodically washing his hands and arms using the antimicrobial soap, then kept an eye on the clock as he cleaned beneath his nails with the disposable file and began to methodically scrub his skin with the antimicrobial-preloaded sponge. He backed into the surgical theater with his wet hands held above his elbows, and smiled his thanks at Erica when she handed him a sterile towel to dry off with and began opening his gown.

They made short work of gown, cap, mask and gloves, and Derek was pleased to see that by the time he turned to the patient on the table, intubated, anaesthetised and being carefully monitored, and his entire team was in place and ready to begin.

One look at the x-ray film Erica held up for him told Derek that the foot and ankle weren’t salvageable. The traumatic injury was indeed a BKA, or below-knee amputation, with nothing left beneath the lower third of the shin but a pulpy lump of tissue liberally interrupted by shards of shattered bone. It wasn’t the first landmine injury Derek had seen, and while terrible, he had seen worse.

He began carefully cutting away the worst of the damaged tissue, only briefly glancing up when the orthopedic specialist approached the other side of the table, holding up the x-ray to look over.

“Sokolov, right?” Derek asked.

_ “Da,” _ the big man replied, frowning and pointing at the film. “Is no good.”

Derek smiled. “I think this guy would agree with you.”

Lev Sokolov glanced over the top of his glasses at Derek and smiled in return, the suddenly relaxed expression making him look younger and infinitely less intimidating than when he was concentrating, even behind the scrub mask. As a fellow owner of ‘resting murder face’ _ (thank you, Laura) _ , Derek was inclined to like him. _ “Nyet,” _ he said, shaking his head. “Is fracture here. Need to make cut above or... no good.”

Lifting his chin in invitation, Derek waited for Lev to turn the x-ray to the light and pointed out where the tiniest of fractures ran up the tibia, a fact no one else had noticed until then.

“Damn, there is. Where do you advise we cut?” A nurse handed Lev a surgical skin marker and he drew a line on the x-ray to indicate where he thought they should cut the bones to remove all of the fractured section.

“Do here,” Lev said, then circled another part of bone that was about to be removed. “Keep. Make bone bridge.”

“A distal tib-fib bone bridge?” Derek asked, blinking in surprise. “You think?”

_ “Da. _ If not remove all of fracture, bridge spread weight and not make more injury.”

The guy had a point- if they didn’t remove all of the fractured bone then there was the risk that the weakened section of bone would be unable to hold up to a prosthesis later on after recovery. A bone bridge made of the patient’s own bone would spread the pressure across both of the lower leg bones equally and theoretically reinforce the amputation. Derek had done some reading on it, and nothing seemed to indicate it was a bad idea, so if the ortho specialist recommended it, that was what he’d do.

“Okay,” Derek said, hands still moving as he clamped off blood vessels, shifted nerves and cleaned the wound out as much as he could. “Can you stay? I haven’t done one before, so if you could talk me through it, that would be great.”

“I am not surgeon,” the Russian said with a shrug like a seismic event, “but I stay and do this with you.”

They progressed through the surgery without too much trouble, but the patient had lost a lot of blood and seemed to be an easy bleeder requiring extra hands for anastomosis. Derek sighed when he heard back that the patient was B-negative, then instructed one of the nurses to arrange a collection ASAP. Derek knew there were a few B-neg personnel currently on staff, and several O-negs as well. That would replenish their stores for a little while, hopefully enough to get the guy through surgery, at least.

As the procedure continued, Derek felt himself sink into the surgical headspace he thrived on, that place of no-mind where he was purely reactive, thorough and methodical without really having to think about it. He and his team worked easily together, almost predicting each other’s needs, over the course of several hours. He was _ good _ at this, lived for it, and it was times like this that he really remembered why.

It wasn’t until he was tying off the last of the sutures around the drain and the noise of the theater gradually began to return to him that he realised he was done, desperately thirsty, and had an ache in his neck that radiated down either side of his spine. He stood back from the sterile field and rolled his head slowly to try and relieve some of the tension, only to pull up short when he caught sight of Stiles sitting in a corner of the room, covered in sterile gown other than the white bandage around his left elbow and a bag of blood being transfused into the right.

“O-neg,” he said happily, waving, “universal donor. What can I say? I’m a giver.”

“Why are you here?” Derek asked, confused, pulling off his gloves and tugging his mask down and off his face.

“A little birdy told me you were recruiting for a blood drive, so I may have wheedled my way in here to see Doctor Bear in action in exchange for some plasma.”

Ah,” Derek said, moving out of the way as the team began to move the bed out of the theater and off to one of the wards. “Returning your red blood cells?”

“Apparently I can use them,” Stiles smiled. He watched as Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his head again. “You were amazing, Doc.”

Derek sighed and managed a wry grin. “We’re a pretty great team. I’m lucky.”

“No, I meant _ you _,” Stiles told him. “The way you listened to that big Russian dude when he was talking you through what to do, the way you speak to your nurses, how calm and confident you are… all of it. Amazing.”

And… yep, that blush that kept making an appearance was just going to set up camp and stay forever. “Thank you, but honestly--”

“Doc, just accept the compliment,” Stiles laughed, smiling his thanks at Diana when she removed the needle from his arm and wrapped the self-adhesive bandage around his elbow. He graciously accepted the juice box she gave him and shrugged back into his jacket, his cotton tee pulling tight across his well-muscled chest and shoulders as he did so.

“Thank you,” Derek said eventually, mouth dry. And then, after a beat, “Derek.” Stiles raised his eyebrows in question. “My name. You can call me that instead of ‘doc’.” He glanced over his shoulder at Erica when she began to untie his gown, narrowing his eyes at her massive smirk.

“I don’t know,” Stiles mused, biting the straw of his juice box between straight white teeth, “I’ve kinda grown partial to thinking of you as ‘Doctor Bear’. You know, in my imagination.”

Erica cackled and draped an arm over Derek’s shoulder. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said to Stiles, grinning toothily. “I’m Erica, Derek’s favourite nurse.”

“No, that would be Isaac,” Derek hissed at her, but Stiles just laughed.

“Stiles. Tell me, Erica- if a guy were to ask a gorgeous doctor out for a drink tonight, where would they go?”

Erica laughed and began tugging Derek out of the theater, jerking her head to indicate that Stiles should follow. “First flight out of Baghdad?” she suggested. “In lieu of that, I recommend you go and see Mickey, and take a walk.” She winked at Derek, flashed a smile at Stiles, and then left, humming Redbone’s _ Come And Get Your Love _ as she went.

“She’s something else,” Stiles said admiringly, to which Derek snorted inelegantly.

“She certainly is.”

They stood just inside the main doors of the surgery and watched each other, Derek realising suddenly that for all Stiles’ expressions and smiles, he was actually impossible to read. He wasn’t sure what his own face was revealing, but whatever it was made Stiles’ eyes soften slightly and crease at the corners.

“Can I take you out tonight?” he asked softly, taking half a step forward to bring him fully into Derek’s space.

“Yeah,” Derek replied, just as quietly, something flipping over in his belly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles said, smiling, clearly pleased.

“Yeah. I finish at five this evening, but I might not get out until closer to six. I can come find you-”

“I’ll be here at five. I can wait.”

Derek flushed slightly as he returned the open grin with a small smile of his own. “So. I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, Doc, you sure will.”

*

By the time five p.m. rolled around, Derek was more than ready to leave. The day had dragged by with the anticipation of his date with Stiles, as well as it being unusually quiet despite the influx of patients. There weren’t many emergent cases, thank goodness, but it meant that he didn’t get the chance to sink into the headspace he needed to make the hours fly by. It did mean, however, that when Stiles arrived back in the hospital that Derek was ready to go.

Derek sighed long-sufferingly as Erica fussed over him, finger-combing his hair to one side before frowning and shoving it back from his face. She ran her hands under the tap in the break room and used her wet hands to smooth down his beard, and finally did the same to his eyebrows, making him smile.

“That, right there,” she said, smiling fondly in return. “Smile like that and I guarantee you’ll get laid today before I do.”

“Oh my god,” Derek snorted, pulling away from her. “Why am I friends with you?”

“Because you’re pretty, but you’re hopeless,” she told him matter-of-factly, patting the side of his face with more enthusiasm than he would have preferred. “Now go and get your man, Doc.”

Derek felt nerves begin spinning in his stomach again and glanced down over himself, wincing at the blood on his sneakers and the left hem of his scrubs, but it was too late to do anything about it now, so he let Erica slap him on the ass and stepped out of the break room, only to almost walk into Stiles whose hands shot out to steady him, one on his shoulder and one on his waist.

“I mean, I was planning on wooing you with a romantic riverside dinner beneath a glorious sunset,” the SEAL told him pleasantly, “but if you want to get close and personal right now I can’t say I’d have any complaints.”

Derek managed to collect himself and took a step back, glancing over Stiles and admiring the breadth of his shoulders beneath his sand-coloured fatigue tee. “I’m not that kind of girl, I’m afraid.”

Stiles’ laugh was warm, and he held the door open for Derek, the two of them stepping out into the cooling desert evening together. “Tell me about your day, Doc.”

“It wasn’t that interesting, really,” Derek said with a shrug. “A few post-op patients to keep an eye on, one peri-op that I assisted on, and a whole heap of general medical stuff to create paperwork for us. How about you?”

“Donated some blood, watched the most gorgeous doctor I’ve ever seen save a man’s life, took a nap. You know, slow.”

Flushing, Derek managed a wry smile. “You took a nap? Way to tease a guy.”

Stiles stopped, and halted Derek as well with a hand on his forearm. “Do you want to go to bed?” He laughed loudly at the look on Derek’s face and scratched a hand up the back of his own head. “Not with me,” he said, “although… No, I meant given you’ve been on shift all day and you’ve got to be tired, we can postpone this if you’d rather go to bed and get some sleep.”

“I-- no, I want to have dinner with you,” Derek said shyly. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

“Me too,” Stiles told him, releasing Derek’s arm and leading him onwards. “I found Mickey, by the way. _ That _ was an interesting experience.”

“I’ll bet,” Derek laughed.

Michaela ‘Mickey’ Hudson was an Australian MSF volunteer with a near-legendary ability to get her hands on anything imaginable. She was referred to as the Procurement Wizard throughout camp, and everyone knew that if they needed something from home, something specific or something hard-to-find, Mickey was their girl. She was also an irrepressible flirt, and the more Derek imagined it, the more he wished he’d been a fly on the wall for their meeting.

“I like her,” Stiles said. “I’m terrified of her, and _ Lydia _ is on my team, so that’s saying something, but I do like her.”

As they cleared the buildings and strolled towards the river, Derek glanced across at Stiles. “May I ask you something?” he asked. “Something personal?”

“Shoot.”

“How are you a SEAL in the U.S. military and yet so openly...”

“Gay?”

Stiles’ smile was wry, but Derek just raised his eyebrows. “I was going to say ‘out’_ , _ but however you want to put it is fine.”

“Well, I’m pan, if that makes a difference,” Stiles explained, “but it’s mostly to do with my team. The things we’ve done, that we’ve seen and been through… there’s nobody in the world that I trust more than those guys. There’s no risk in my being who I am around them. When I’m on base somewhere, or around mixed company it’s a different story, but here? Eh, not so much.” He waited a beat while Derek nodded. “Besides, how was I supposed to control myself when confronted with the sight of you, all tanned and muscled and _ wet _ . _ ” _His voice trailed off dreamily and he sighed.

Derek stepped a little closer as they walked until their shoulders were brushing together, and glanced across to find Stiles meeting his eyes steadily.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked soberly.

“A little,” Derek told him honestly. “But it’s not bad. I just… I’m not used to anyone being so-”

“Openly admirous?” Stiles asked. “Overtly warm for your form? And I say overtly, because trust me, _ no one _ around here is blind to your charms.”

“What are _ your _ charms, would you say?” Derek asked through a blush, attempting to deflect.

“I can quote the entire original Star Wars trilogy,” Stiles replied immediately, ticking off his fingers, “I can make a lasagne so good you’ll drop to your knees, I can make twenty-three-hundred-yard sniper shots with consistent accuracy, and I have the inherent ability to piss Jackson off to the point of homicide without even opening my mouth.” Derek laughed. “Also, I’m incredibly well-endowed.”

Derek’s laugh became suddenly strangled and he felt his face heat. “That- you… jesus, you’re ridiculous,” he said, pressing his palms to his warm cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said insincerely, his laugh echoing across the flat sand. He raised a hand to someone and Derek saw the redhead and brunette from his team wave in return before disappearing from sight. Then they crested the riverbank and Derek saw the blanket spread out on the hard-baked sand, dinner arranged on it complete with a bouquet of fluffy grasses and reeds in a tin can.

“You arranged all this for me?” Derek asked, stunned.

“I technically owe Mickey a kidney, a lung if she ever needs one, and I had promise her our firstborn if it’s cute; sorry about that.”

The affection that filled Derek at the sheer ridiculousness of Stiles’ words was warm and encompassing, and it emboldened him enough to reach out and lace his fingers through Stiles’. Surprised, Stiles glanced down at their hands and then back up, then squeezed Derek’s hand gently as they continued onwards.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” Derek marvelled as the setting sun began to set the sky aflame in a wash of pinks, oranges and golds.

“I would have proposed the moment we met if I thought you’d have accepted,” Stiles flirted, reluctantly releasing Derek to allow him to sit, but remaining close enough to sit by his side.

“You’re an incorrigible flirt, has anyone ever told you that?”

“No one whose opinion I cared enough about to listen to.” He reached across Derek’s legs, their faces coming close enough that Derek could see the tiny gold flecks and chocolate-brown striae in Stiles’ irises, warm scent of his skin infiltrating Derek’s senses.

“Fancy a drink?” he asked, voice low and rough as he sat back and passed a mildly-cool bottle of beer to Derek.

“Sculpin?” Derek asked incredulously as he twisted off the lid. “Ballast Point Sculpin? This is my favourite IPA- now I see why we owe Mickey our future child.”

“She did tell me she was saving it for you for a special occasion, which I convinced her this was.”

Derek took a long draw from the bottle before handing it to Stiles. It was cool, bitter, and absolutely delicious, the mango and citrus flavours dancing on his tongue and making him groan. Stiles froze, the mouth of the bottle resting on his bottom lip and tongue, eyes wide as he stared hungrily at Derek.

“And you call _ me _ a menace,” he muttered under his breath, swallowing hard.

Finally feeling like he had gained a little ground, Derek shot him a look from beneath his eyelashes as he took the bottle back, ensuring their fingers met during the exchange. It had been an incredibly long time since he’d flirted deliberately like this, and he’d never been much good at it, but by the way Stiles was looking at him he figured he must be doing something right.

*

Dinner was perfect. In spite of it being regular old camp food, the company more than made up for it and Derek felt like he was falling in love right there beneath the star-studded purple sky. Stiles was perfect. He was clever and acerbic, his observations droll and witty. He was startlingly well-read, though many of his pop-culture references went over Derek’s head. He knew how to rile Derek up without pushing too far, was tactile without being handsy, and he made it feel like there was electricity arcing between them.

As the sky deepened in colour above them, the sounds of the river and of the desert at night creating a soundtrack for them, Derek began to realise that he _ wanted _ Stiles, wanted him in a way that was making him ache. He hadn’t realised how ruthlessly he’d been suppressing his baser desires until they all came flooding back, making him feel twitchy and restless.

“Doc? Derek?” Stiles asked, forehead creased.

“Sorry, what?” Derek asked, refocusing on Stiles.

“Where’d you go, there?”

Derek hesitated for a moment, weighing up how honest he should be, but when he considered the fact that he was probably never going to see Stiles again after his flight home, he realised that he really had nothing to lose.

“I was thinking about taking you to bed,” Derek told him honestly.

“Oh really?” Stiles’ curiosity and desire were painted obviously across his face.

“Mmm, yeah. I’m fortunate to have a room of my own, you know. In a little while, if you want to, we could go there.” He said it conversationally, deliberately keeping inflection from his voice, and was rewarded with Stiles’ eyes blowing wide and dark in the twilight.

_ “If _I want to?” Stiles asked, huffing a laugh and staring incredulously at Derek. “I’m willing to get started right here and now, just say the word.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“I’d like to go back to my room, now.”

The haste with which Stiles scrambled to his feet and began gathering up their dinner things would have been unseemly were he not beaming so widely. Derek laughed and allowed himself to be pulled upright, impressed once again by the deceptive strength contained within Stiles’ lithe body.

“Can I kiss you now?” Stiles asked suddenly, stilling and watching Derek carefully.

“You want to do that out here?” Derek asked curiously. “There’s no privacy.”

“Every single person in this camp could be gathered around to watch,” Stiles told him with a wry smile, “and it wouldn’t bother me a bit just as long as I got to kiss you.”

Heat bloomed in Derek’s belly and he nodded. “In that case, go right ahead.”

Dropping the small bundle of their dinner things, Stiles took a step forward and cupped Derek’s face in his hands, thumbs smoothing gently over his cheekbones briefly before he leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, Derek’s hands flying up to wrap involuntarily around Stiles’ wrists.

Stiles tasted like spearmint gum and he smelled like good, clean sweat and gun oil, and Derek knew he was going to be in trouble any time he smelled that from now on. But his hands were gentle and his body was receptive, and Derek felt a shiver make its way down his spine in anticipation as Stiles’ tongue curled teasingly against his. Too soon it was over and Stiles was stepping back, but his eyes glowed with promise as he gathered their things again and fell into step beside Derek.

They didn’t speak as they made their way back to the living area, only stopping briefly at the Mess to return the things that Stiles had borrowed. Derek led the way to the row of tents his was part of and idly noted as he went who was working and who was home. He nodded to Sokolov as they passed the big Russian, trying to ignore his wide grin when he saw how close Derek and Stiles were walking, and eventually reached his own tent.

“I have some water inside,” he said, “but if you want more than that the shower block is down there.” He pointed to the end of the row where the corner of a cinder-block building could just be seen. “The _ communal _ shower block,” he added when Stiles’ eyes lit up.

“Maybe later, then,” Stiles grinned as Derek sighed and unzipped his tent, allowing Stiles to enter ahead of him.

To his surprise, when he entered, Derek discovered that his bed had been shoved against the far wall of the tent and a lush-looking pallet of blankets and pillows had been created in the middle of the floor. There were strategically placed candles illuminating the space, and several boxes of condoms were fanned out against the pillows like a hotel welcome.

“My team think they’re clever,” Stiles sighed, casting a seemingly-nervous look sideways at Derek, as though unsure what his reaction was going to be.

“You mean this _ isn’t _part of the date?” Derek asked, eyebrows raised. “And here you were doing so well.”

“If it’s going to score me extra points then I’m more than happy to take credit for it,” Stiles laughed.

“As if you need further encouragement,” Derek snorted, toeing off his shoes to leave them just inside the door. He tugged his shirt off, adding it to the small pile of laundry he made a mental note to get done in the next day or two, then filled his small basin from a bottle of water on the floor and cursorily washed up. He was dusty, as everyone always was, but he’d had a remarkably uneventful day, so thankfully wasn’t in need of much more than a brief rinse.

Turning around as he dried his face and chest with a hand towel, Derek finished to find Stiles sitting on the edge of his bed as he undid his boots, mouth a little ajar and eyes gone soft. “Uh, all yours, if you want it,” Derek told him, gesturing back over his shoulder at the water.

“Oh, I want it alright,” Stiles told him sincerely, one side of his mouth twisting up in a disbelieving grin.

“You actually can’t help yourself, can you?” Derek asked incredulously.

“Do you even _ know _ what you look like?” Stiles shot back. “Because trust me, if you did? You’d get where I’m coming from.”

Derek laughed and crawled onto the other side of the makeshift bed from Stiles, groaning as he splayed out on his belly with his arms and legs akimbo. “God, it’s been over a year since I’ve slept in a bed that I’m not too big for. Tell your team that all is forgiven.”

Stiles chuckled from where he was washing up, splashing water onto the back of his neck and scrubbing roughly for a moment before cleaning his hands. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear it.” He caught the towel that Derek tossed to him and dried off, then stripped his own shirt off, followed by his fatigue trousers and belt, all folded neatly and set next to his boots out of the way. He was left in just a dark pair of boxer briefs and dog tags, and he dropped down onto the blankets next to Derek, sighing contentedly as he relaxed.

Derek yawned and shifted so he was on his side facing Stiles, head in his hand as he allowed himself to take in the miles of gorgeous skin on display. To the throat and from the shoulders down Stiles was a gorgeous tanned colour, but everywhere else he was almost shockingly pale, only marred by scar tissue and a widespread constellation of dark moles, including one that Derek gave in and pressed a kiss to just above his right nipple.

“Hey there,” Stiles murmured, one hand lifting to thread lazily through Derek’s hair.

“Hi,” Derek said, feeling young and carefree for the first time in an incredibly long time. “I like you without your shirt on.”

“Trust me,” Stiles said, the smile audible in his voice, “the feeling is _ very _ mutual.” He reached over and dragged his nails through the hair on Derek’s chest and down over his abs. “Christ, how are you even real?” he muttered happily, rolling onto his side and then over so he was wrapped around Derek’s torso and looking down into his face.

Instead of answering, Derek just tilted his chin up and allowed his lips to part in invitation, an invitation Stiles gladly accepted. They kissed lazily for a long time, hands wandering, exploring and gentle, and Derek revelled in the arousal blooming from somewhere low in his belly to spread outwardly until it felt like his fingertips were tingling with it.

It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself the hedonistic joy of taking his time, of basking in the pleasure of just being turned on, let alone being turned on with someone else. He was so time poor- they all were- but he found it hard to justify to himself the luxury of time.

“Where’s that beautiful brain of yours?” Stiles murmured against his lips, one hand shoved down the back of Derek’s pants and encouraging him to grind against Stiles’ own cock, hard and wanting where they were pressed together.

“Just thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve done this,” Derek said honestly, tipping his head back to allow Stiles to press kisses up his throat. “How long it’s been since I’ve taken the time to enjoy it.”

“No offense,” Stiles chuckled, low and warm, “but you don’t really seem like the relaxed type.” He pulled away, but just as Derek was about to protest the loss Stiles rolled him onto his belly and tugged his pants and underwear off before straddling the back of his thighs. “Seems like we met at just the right time,” he added, then leaned forward and dug the heels of his hands into the rhomboid major between Derek’s shoulder blades on either side of his spine.

The groan that elicited would have been humiliating if it weren’t so heartfelt, but it was worth it for the way Stiles leaned more of his weight forward to press a kiss to the back of Derek’s neck before continuing his massage. He worked his way thoroughly over Derek’s entire back, procuring moisturiser at some point to ease the way. His big, capable hands reduced Derek to an occasionally-moaning pile of mush, and if it weren’t for the constant not-so-low-level arousal thrumming through him, Derek thought he could have easily fallen asleep like that. As it was, Stiles’ cock pressing against his ass with every rocking motion as he shifted his weight was enough to keep him awake in anticipation of what was to come next.

“Do you want me to leave?” Stiles asked softly after Derek had been quiet for a while. “I honestly don’t mind.”

“I do,” Derek exclaimed, though his words were a little slurry with fatigue and relaxation. He managed to roll onto his back whilst keeping Stiles seated above him, taking a moment to drink his fill of the gorgeous man admiring him right back. Derek rested his hands on powerful thighs and slowly slid them upwards until his thumbs were pressed into Stiles’ hipbones and his fingertips curled in the waistband of his underwear. “Can I?”

Stiles bit his lip and nodded, seemingly torn between watching Derek’s face and where Derek’s hands began to tug at the fabric until his cock was free, thick and ruddy and looking good enough that Derek’s mouth began to water a little. He wasted no time in taking it in a firm grip and sliding slowly, watching the head appear from beneath the foreskin, shiny with precome and the crown flaring enticingly.

“Jesus,” Stiles sighed, eyes closing for a long blink before he shifted slightly, Derek’s cock settling between his cheeks to rub teasingly over his hole as he rolled his hips a little, thrusting up into Derek’s hand.

Derek stroked him slowly, letting his thumb sweep over the slit, his fingertips brush against balls, keeping his grip firm and covetous until it just wasn’t enough anymore, and he used the hand still on Stiles’ hip to urge him forward a little, watching the blissed out expression he wore give way to confusion and then spark right back into arousal.

“Yeah?” Stiles asked breathlessly, his belly trembling a little with the effort he was exerting not to move.

“Please, yes,” Derek encouraged, shuffling down the bed a little and tossing his pillow to one side as Stiles rose up and knee walked up Derek’s torso until he was close enough for Derek to take the head of his cock into his mouth and suck, eyelids dropping closed as the flavour of precome burst across his tongue, salty and hot.

Until it was gone, and a whine rose in his throat before he could control it and his eyes flew open in outrage.

“Wait,” Stiles laughed, shifting and arranging them so they were on their sides with their heads at opposite ends of the bed. “Good. Now, please resume,” he said cockily, and bent forward to return the favour and suck almost all of Derek straight down, his tongue working the underside and making Derek’s breath hitch.

They lay like that, giving and receiving pleasure until Derek’s jaw began to ache, until he was half-crazy with arousal and could barely figure out which way was up when Stiles pulled off and soothed him with gentle hands, settling him back on his stomach and settling in between Derek’s legs as he began to work him open, murmuring words of praise and reassurance the entire time. He seemed to enjoy what he was doing, taking his time and spoiling Derek until he felt nearly ruined with how turned on he was. Every nerve ending seemed electrified, and if he was talking he knew none of it could be comprehensible as he could barely make sense of his own thoughts, let alone verbalising them.

Then those wickedly talented fingers were gone, replaced with something much bigger and more satisfying, filling Derek as though replacing something he hadn’t even known he was missing. He groaned, low and deep, and shoved up onto his hands and knees to rock back against Stiles, wordless demanding harder, deeper, _ more, _ and Stiles complied. His hands clamped down on Derek’s hips and he took Derek utterly apart, sliding out slowly until just the head of his cock was inside before thrusting forward in a forceful shove as he yanked Derek’s body back towards him.

A thrill ran up Derek’s spine, raising goosebumps in its wake as Stiles repeated his movement and set up a punishing pace. Derek simultaneously wished he could see Stiles’ shoulders and biceps flexing with the power behind his handling of Derek’s body, but at the same time was glad he had the option of burying his face in the blanket and just feeling the way Stiles was owning him, taking possession of him in a way he’d never experienced before.

“More, please, god,” he managed to grit out, arching his back and lifting his ass a little higher, his breath sobbing out as Stiles’ fingers dug into his skin hard enough to bruise and somehow began to thrust even harder, his hipbones meeting Derek’s glutes with a dull smacking sound every time, his breathing harsh and raw in the relative quiet of the tent.

His orgasm snuck up on him, lightning shooting through his entire body until he finally realised that it seemed to be coalescing in his groin, his balls aching and heavy as they drew up tight to his body. “Stiles, I can’t-”

“You can, I want you to,” Stiles panted as he kept up the brutal pace. “Want to feel it, feel you come for me.”

“I can’t,” Derek sobbed, “need something, need more…”

Stiles slammed home and grabbed him by one shoulder, grinding his cock as deep as he could as he reached beneath Derek to stroke his cock twice before Derek was coming, crying out hoarsely as Stiles followed, his hips jerking spasmodically as he draped his body over Derek’s, biting across his shoulders as though trying to ground himself.

They stayed like that for long moments, bodies heaving as they fought to catch their breath until Stiles eventually groaned and straightened up, pulling out as gently as he could and checking Derek was okay as he hissed his displeasure. Derek shoved the top sheet down to avoid the wet spot before collapsing face down as Stiles disposed of the condom and cleaned up a little, and the sound of water splashing in the small basin was the last thing he remembered before darkness took him over.

  


A hand on his face woke him approximately eighteen seconds later, and he groaned as Stiles smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone and kissed his top lip. “I have to go, but I didn’t want you to think I was bailing. I’ll try and be back before you get up, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Derek sighed, eyes still closed.. “‘Nother kiss?”

“As if I could say no,” Stiles told him, achingly honest and small in the quiet night, and he kissed Derek again, lingeringly, like a promise.

When he next woke it was to the sounds of hushed voices arguing outside of his tent. He sighed and got as far as sitting on the edge of the bed when the tent opened briefly and Stiles slipped back in, his expression drawn in a way that had Derek on high alert immediately.

“What is it?” he asked hoarsely, running a hand through his head and smiling gratefully when Stiles came to sit beside him and hand him a bottle of water.

“We’ve gotten the call,” Stiles said, and Derek knew what that meant.

“When do you leave?”

Stiles shrugged with one shoulder and shifted to face Derek, his eyes cataloguing as many details as he could. “We’re waiting to hear back, but it’ll be either tonight or tomorrow morning. Your sister wants you to come with us so we can take you to Baghdad because we’re headed there anyway, but I told her it had to be your choice. You’ve got alternate transport on Friday planned, but she would _ prefer it _ if you came with us when we left.” He paused and smiled wryly. “Your sister is an incredibly frightening woman.”

“What would you advise?” Derek asked.

Stiles pressed a knuckle between his eyes. “I would advise me getting back into bed with you and seeing if I can get you to make more of those noises you were making last night,” he said, grinning when Derek’s blush was visible even in the darkened tent. “Barring that, I’ll take whatever time I have left with you. There’s a risk if you travel with us, though, but given the state of affairs at the moment I wouldn’t put money on that risk being much higher than travelling with the guides coming to take you on Friday.”

“Will you get in trouble if I come with you?”

“Normally it would be out of the question,” Stiles said with a casual shrug, “but someone’s pulling some strings from pretty high up to let you come with.”

“Ugh, that’ll be my Uncle Peter,” Derek confessed. “Congressman Peter Hale.”

Whistling through his teeth, Stiles nodded. “That’d do it, yeah.” He was quiet for a moment. “It would make me feel better if you were with us, but I’ll respect whatever it is you want to do.”

And he would, Derek was somehow entirely certain. So he leaned forward, rested his head on Stiles’ shoulder and said, “Okay. I’ll start packing now.”

  


Abdul was sleeping when Derek went in to say goodbye, so he took Erica’s camera to record a video saying goodbye, and he promised to write emails and send chocolate whenever he could. He hugged Isaac, Nenet and Erica tightly as he said goodbye to them too, surprised by the shine in Erica’s eyes as she told him to be careful and threatened all kinds of retribution if he didn’t make it home safe.

Word got around fast, and as he made his way through the camp he had all kinds of people saying goodbyes, many with fond touches to his hand or shoulder, and tight hugs from more than a few. When he finally found himself standing outside of the Hub he took a moment to watch Laura directing a group of people, many of whom Derek had never seen, to begin expanding an area of the camp to make room for an influx of aid workers who were due in in the next week or two. She caught sight of him and finished up her instructions, answering a few questions before they were left to say their goodbyes.

Laura pulled him in close, hugging him as tightly as he clung to her. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she warned. “And you get in touch as soon as you can and let me know, okay? I mean it, Der.”

“I promise,” Derek swore, meaning it. He knew the fear of watching someone leave around here, never certain of the outcome. “But I expect my paperwork to be fast tracked so I can get back here asap.”

“God, you’re such a nerd,” she said, voice barely wavering as she kissed his cheek and stepped back, pulling her tshirt straight and pretending that she didn’t have real feelings. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Derek told her. “Don’t love that grey hair, though,” he said, gesturing at his own temple and laughing when she swore at him and darted off to find a mirror.

He shouldered his pack and made his way through the complex to where he’d promised to meet Stiles, finding him sitting on the hood of a sand-coloured Jeep that looked armoured to the teeth, even to his untrained eye. His team were standing with him, the two women poring over a map spread out on the hood beside Stiles, the two other men talking quietly as they went through a case of something propped open on the front seat.

“All set?” Stiles asked, sliding off the hood and going to take Derek’s pack from him.

“I guess so,” Derek confirmed, and smiled when Stiles slipped into his space and kissed him softly, eyes unspeakably fond.

“Let’s go, then,” Stiles said, his voice certain and sure, before they all got into the Jeep and Derek began his long journey home.


End file.
